Something Good
by BelleMacFarlane
Summary: She survived the war. She knows more about it than most people. Abbie Riddle unveils the truth behind her life and those close to her, giving a first-hand true account of a historical period. First person narrative. OFC. Autobiography format.
1. Beginnings

I guess I should start by telling you what I'm going to be writing about and why. Well, you should have a vague idea since you've bought the book. I'm writing about me. My life. As for why, well, you can bet Rita Skeeter is just itching to write my biography, and in my experience, she writes more lies and exaggerations than truths. So this is my way of saying "up yours" to her.

My life is such a long story though. And I have such a short attention span when it comes to stories. But it must be easier than writing a fictional story. I know the facts, the events. The beginning, the middle. There's not really an end, not until I die, and I can't exactly write a book from the grave. I may be magic, but _that's_ impossible.

I guess I should start at the start, but it's not that simple. Is the start my birth? I guess. But there are so many elements of my mother's life, of my grandmother's life, that affect my life, right from the moment I was born.

So here are the basic facts of my birth. I was born Abigail Susanne Riddle, 8 August 1980, in Swindon, Wiltshire. Present at my birth were my mother of course, Susanne Riddle, and the midwife. No father. No parents about to become grandparents. Just my mother and I.

Before you jump to any conclusions, let me assure you that they did exist. My father and grandparents, I mean. They just didn't know I was being born. They didn't even know I existed. My paternal grandparents were dead, as I would discover many years later. My maternal grandmother would discover I existed in a few months. My father and I met when I was 11, but we didn't know of our relation until I was 14. My maternal grandfather – well, he's a long story. I tried to keep off his radar for as long as possible, but that's another story for another time.

My mother, unwilling to admit the identity of my father, lied and said she didn't know, and so I was christened with her surname. I grew up a fairly carefree child, not getting into trouble – as long as I kept a lid on my magic. I went to a muggle primary school, where I largely kept to myself on my mother's warning. This, of course, led to me being seen as the weird one who didn't really talk to anyone.

I didn't care. I knew making friends would be pointless, because I was going on to bigger and better things. Muggle education was just to pass the time, to give me literary and numeric skills before I went to Hogwarts.

Then, a month before my 11th birthday, it came. The thing I'd been waiting for since I knew how to walk: my Hogwarts letter. I remember that letter clear as day. It seemed huge in my 11-year-old hands. My name and address were written elegantly in what I would come to recognise as the calligraphic, for some reason green, handwriting of Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts deputy head and Transfiguration professor.

It arrived quite early, while I was still in bed. My mum came in and turned the light on. I moaned and buried my head under the duvet like any eleven year old would, but out of the corner of my eye, before I was fully buried, I saw a glimmer of green and emerged just as quickly as I'd hidden.

"Don't you want your Hogwarts letter?" My mum teased.

"Gimme!" I squealed with excitement, sitting up and suddenly a lot more awake than I had been a moment ago.

Really, the letter wasn't what I was excited for. I knew what it would say. Hogwarts didn't really reject people, in fact every witch and wizard has their name down from the moment they're born. The only situation in which a magical child doesn't go to Hogwarts is if their parents choose to home school them, or to send them to a foreign school. What I was really excited for was the confirmation that Hogwarts wasn't imaginary. It was real. And I was going .This letter wasn't exciting because it offered me a place – it was exciting because it was the first indication that it was _my_ turn.

I was eager, to put it lightly. I would bug my mum constantly that we needed to go to Diagon Alley soon! Or else it would be really, really busy. After a week of non-stop insistence, Mum eventually agreed we would go at the end of the month.

If you know much about Harry Potter, you might know he went at the end of the month too. We went on the same day, yes, but I'd been right – Diagon Alley was packed. I didn't get a glimpse of my future close friend that day, and this might be my brain lying to me, but I swear I remember a gigantic man, twice the size of anyone else around, standing outside a shop holding an owl. I thought it curious he was so big, but let the thought escape and focused instead on finding Flourish & Blotts. How was I supposed to know that giant man would come to be a good friend, or that he was waiting for the famous Harry Potter, who was inside talking to my future husband?

I've been to a lot of breathtaking magical places in my life. But by far Diagon Alley exceeds all others, surpassed only by Hogwarts itself. Hogsmeade, where I live now, is third – no, fourth. The atrium of the Ministry of Magic is third. The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley is what makes me love it so. Witches and wizards of varying ages, races, genders and purpose passing by you constantly. Snippets of conversations - "we need more newt eyes", "where can I get one of those self-frying pans?" - which would make the most open-minded muggle stop and wonder if they'd heard it right. Something unusual at every turn – the strangest of creatures – the most awe-inspiring of spellbooks.

I had been to Diagon Alley before that day, but had always been for simple things Mum needed for the house. Now we were shopping for _me_ and _my_ school stuff, the place took on a new wonder. Over the years I would lose my awe for the place as it became a regular event in the summer to visit, but after my period of abstinence from magic when I left school, seeing Diagon Alley again for the first time in years will not be something I forget in a hurry. Now, every time I visit, I always stop to appreciate what a wonder Diagon Alley truly is.

Buying books was a thrill. All the information readily available was almost intoxicating, since I have a thirst for knowledge surpassed only by Hermione Granger. Potion ingredients weren't so fun, as I'd bought plenty previously with Mum, and robe-fitting only excited me when I saw the final product, with the Hogwarts crest proudly embroidered on the chest.

What I really loved, even more than the books, was the wand. Buying your wand at age eleven is one of the first significant milestones for a witch or wizard, and here I was in Ollivander's doing just that. It took a surprisingly long time to find the right one. I had always assumed Ollivander just knew which wand to give someone, but as I discovered that day, he kept giving me different kinds of wands until he found the right one. After what felt like an age, I finally found my wand.

Holding it in my hand for the first time was a truly magical moment, no pun intended. It was like a light had been switched on inside me. From the moment my skin touched the wood, I felt a beautiful warmth spreading through me, starting in my right hand and making its way around my body until I was filled up with the magic and power that previously sat unlocked inside me, but I always knew was there. Not because I was raised in a magical household, but because I could feel it. I once shared this theory with my friend Hermione, who was raised in a muggle household, and she agreed with me. Somehow, she had always felt this great ability lying dormant inside her until she picked up her wand for the first time. The power was finally unlocked that day in Ollivander's, and no matter how hard I would try many years later, it could never be locked away again. It was like opening Pandora's Box, but in a good way.

And so I left Ollivander's with my wand, feeling positive. I had my wand. 10 and a half inches, ash wood, unicorn hair, swishy. I had my books. I had my robe, equipment, ingredients and owl. I was all set to go to Hogwarts and begin my journey to becoming a fully-fledged witch. I felt like I could face anything, do anything, vanquish anything that dared to stand in my way. I could be whoever I wanted to be.

And, as it turned out, I was right.


	2. Decisions

It's amazing how tiny little decisions can make all the difference. Even something as simple as choosing where to sit on a train can change the course of events for the next two years of your life.

And so it was that August went by at the slowest pace imaginable. But, as the calendar promised, September finally arrived and it was time for me to start school. Hogwarts! I barely slept the night before, and I was annoyingly talkative on the way to King's Cross. Ever vigilant, Mum put up with me and got her own back by making an overly-motherly fuss at the platform before finally, after far too many hugs and "have fun"s and "have you got everything?"s, letting me board the Hogwarts Express. That steam engine sure was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Yes, it was a muggle contraption, but there was just something extraordinarily magical about that train.

This was an important moment. Who knows where my life would have taken me had I not chosen the carriage I did? I like to think I would have ended up exactly where I am right now, just via a different path. But there's no way of knowing, so I'm glad I pulled open the door to the first carriage I saw, though it was several years before I was.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked the carriage as a whole, but it seemed only one of the three acknowledged the fact I'd just entered, even if it was only with a curt nod in my direction without even looking at me. I quickly hoisted by trunk up onto the luggage rack and sat down in the nearest available seat, next to the boy who'd nodded at me.

"Draco Malfoy," he said as way of introduction. "I'm going to be in Slytherin. It's the only house worth being in, my father says. Gryffindors are reckless imbeciles, Ravenclaws reckon they're all a bunch of geniuses and Hufflepuffs are completely useless! You don't come from a Hufflepuff family, do you?"

"No-"

"Good. They say people in the same family often end up in the same house. Take my family, for example. We've all been in Slytherin, for generations. I think we did have a Ravenclaw once, but he was married in, he doesn't really count. I can't imagine marrying someone from another house, could you? I'd hate to dirty the Malfoy name by giving it to some scum outside of the Slytherin house. Oh, and this is Crabbe and Goyle," he added. The two boys sitting opposite grunted in unison. "Who are you?"

Draco looked at me for the first time then. What are you expecting now – that his blue eyes shone like the ocean? That, in that moment, a connection sparked and I knew he was my soulmate? Well, I hate to burst any bubbles, but it doesn't always happen that way. In fat, I don't know any couple who met like that. When Ginny and Harry first met, she gave a small scream and ran out of the room. When Ron and Hermione first met, she told him he had dirt on his nose. Neville and Hannah barely glanced at each other for years. And I barely got a word in edgeways while Draco went on about how Slytherins are so much better than everyone else.

"Abbie Riddle," I replied. (Much quicker than the length of that paragraph implies.)

"Riddle? I don't think I've heard that name before. You're not a mudblood, are you?"

"No, I'm pure-blood." Or so I thought at the time. "All my family have been in Slytherin too." Let's not tell him that only included two people...

"Clearly not very good Slytherins," Draco sneered, "or I would have heard of your name. My father's Lucius Malfoy you see, perhaps you've heard of him? He's extremely powerful. Anyway, he's friends with a lot of great people, there's not a single witch or wizard with any status who doesn't know his name."

"Excuse me," came a bossy voice from the carriage door, which had just been opened. "Have any of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."

"Yes, I have," Draco replied.

"Oh, excellent! Where?"

"I'm looking at it."

I have to admit – because it's a vital point – I laughed. Only shortly, but I laughed. It's vital because that laugh immediately connected me to that rude blonde boy in Hermione's mind, just one of the reasons why choosing that carriage to sit in would later look like a terrible idea.

Once Hermione had stormed off, Draco began laughing, and Crabbe and Goyle laughed (or grunted repeatedly, more accurately) with him.

"Did you see her face?" Draco said between fits of laughter. "It's her own fault for looking like a toad. Stupid girl can't even shut a door. Crabbe, shut it, will you?"

Crabbe grunted and stood up to do so. "Hey, Malfoy," he said, "someone outside just said Harry Potter's on the train."

This sparked Draco's attention and, granted, mine. "Where?" He stood up and practically fell out of the carriage door. (He disagrees, by the way. He thinks he walked out of the door quite calmly, but I know what I saw.) "You there. What's this I hear about Harry Potter being on the train?"

"I saw him get on!" The girl squealed. "I think he must be a first year, like us! Isn't it great? Harry Potter here, at Hogwarts!"

"Yes, marvellous," Draco said absent-mindedly, looking up and down the train. "Come on, Crabbe. Goyle. Riddle. He'll be around here somewhere."

I didn't realise it for a while, but looking back on that scene it seems clear to me, if I had been sorted into Slytherin and remained friends with Draco, I may well have become nothing more than one of Draco Malfoy's drones like Crabbe and Goyle. Of course, my feelings for Draco would have been easier to understand and I may not have been so outraged when I discovered who my father is, but I wouldn't be anything like who I am today.

Draco walked down the train like he owned it; considering his father's money, I wouldn't have been surprised if he really did own it. We eventually reached the last carriage, where we found Harry Potter and a ginger boy (Ron Weasley, of course) sitting with a buttload of sweets. I wondered who was more loaded, Draco or Harry.

The conversation clearly didn't go as Draco had planned. It became clear to me, over time, that Draco desperately wanted Harry to be his friend. He just didn't go about it so well, but who can blame him? He was only acting the way he'd been raised to act. He'd assumed his name would impress Harry, that insulting Ron would make Harry realise you just don't make friends with "cretins like Weasley," as he described them on the way back to their carriage.

"The lot of them are morons. Hand-me-down clothes! I don't understand why they have so many children if they can't even afford to clothe them."

Most of the train journey continued like that. Draco ranted on and on about Hufflepuffs, muggle-borns and many other things I don't recall. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about Draco Malfoy. Part of me was disgusted by his bigoted views, but another part of me found him to be quite amusing purely for how long he could talk without taking a breath.

(Many years later, I would ask him why I've never heard him talk so much since that train ride. He said "I talk when I want to impress someone." I don't believe that.)

Eventually the train ride came to an end. We descended onto the platform to be greeted by the largest man I'd ever seen. "Firs'-years!" He bellowed. "Firs'-years, follow me!"

We followed him, hoping he was from the school and not some mad man who came to steal all the first-years, accompanied by Draco's rant about why "that oaf" shouldn't be allowed to work at Hogwarts. I don't remember much about the boat ride across the lake, so I guess it was pretty uneventful. Draco probably ranted. Crabbe and Goyle probably grunted. I probably said nothing. That was pretty much what the friendship would have entailed, had I been sorted differently.

The next thing I can tell you about with certainty is the sorting. Don't worry, all you'll miss is walking and waiting. If this book were to entail everything that happened throughout my life, it would be the size of the Great Hall.

And so the sorting ceremony began. The hat sang its song and Professor McGonagall began calling people up. Some people I recognised from the trail, such as Hermione Granger and Padma Patil (Gryffindor and Ravenclaw respectively). We all got a good laugh when Neville Longbottom (Gryffindor) forgot to take the hat off, and then it was Draco's turn.

"If you're not in Slytherin," he whispered to me, "I don't know you."

"If you're not in Slytherin," I whispered back, "you won't hear the end of it from me."

Sure enough, the hat had barely touched Draco's head before it sorted him into Slytherin. There was a moment of silence and awe, followed by raucous applause, when Harry Potter was called up and sorted into Gryffindor.

The atmosphere of boredom and hunger stayed the same when my name was called, but there were tiny things I never even noticed. McGonagall paused between reading my name and saying it. As I would later be told, terror spread through Rubeus Hagrid's mind. "At firs' I wasn' sure I'd heard righ'," he would tell me much later. "Bu' there was no mistakin' tha' name. Riddle. Nothin' ever surprised me more'n hearin' tha' hat sort ya." Severus Snape was also taken by surprise. He had no idea Suzie Riddle had had a daughter. (He was a smart guy... how it took him two years to do the math is beyond me. Too busy hating Mr Potter, I guess.)

I was never entirely sure what house I wanted to be in. Like many eleven year olds, I had no idea who I was. How was I going to categorise my personality if I didn't even know what my personality was? All I could have told you was that I was quiet unless excited. (That changed over the years, of course.) They don't exactly have a house for that, so I was stumped. I knew one thing, though. After what Draco had said about people from the same family being in the same house, I didn't want to be in Slytherin, not unless it was because the hat saw a Slytherin personality in me.

And so it was that the hat yelled, "GRYFFINDOR!" That certainly changed things.


End file.
